


Bad Days

by lokimostly



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Lots of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:33:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22340098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokimostly/pseuds/lokimostly
Summary: Thranduil escapes the troubles of his day to find that his wife is having struggles of her own.~ ~ ~From a Tumblr request: Would you be willing to write a Thranduil x reader fic where he comforts his s/o after a bad day? Thank you!
Relationships: Thranduil (Tolkien)/Original Character(s), Thranduil (Tolkien)/Original Female Character(s), Thranduil (Tolkien)/Reader, Thranduil (Tolkien)/You, Thranduil/Thranduil's Wife
Comments: 8
Kudos: 104





	Bad Days

Thranduil sighed and set his chin on the back of his hand, staring out into nothingness as the voices of his courtiers carried on monotonously. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, spun the rings of encrusted jewels on his hands, picked at the hem of his burnt orange sleeve. The Woodland King’s eyelids were beginning to droop, and his attention had long since left the room. 

Whatever cause his advisors had been petitioning was lost at this point, but they hadn’t noticed yet. They kept on, further spurring his descent into thoughtless space. It wasn’t until a guard entered, bowed, and cleared his throat for attention that Thranduil’s ice-blue gaze was drawn back to reality, and he lifted his head to receive him.

“Speak.”

The guard’s fisted hand went to his chest and he bowed his head out of formality, his voice carrying through the room. “The queen requests your presence, my lord.”

Relief flooded Thranduil’s veins at the same time as dismay filled his courtiers’, and he stood swiftly to descent the throne. In a desperate attempt for some kind of closure, one of the advisors called out. “My liege, if you could only say the word and approve–”

“We will speak on it tomorrow,” Thranduil reassured him in passing, with no intention to do anything of the sort. The promise of escape from a day’s worth of meetings and proposals shone in his eyes like the light at the end of a dark tunnel, and with a whisper of his robes against the floor, the King was gone from the Great Hall.

Thranduil took the fastest route to the royal chambers, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. He allowed his face to travel through a quick journey of emotional expressions, from disdain to genuine exhaustion. Listening to his courtiers for hours on end was one thing; having to pretend he was _interested_ was another feat entirely.

His train of thought, still riding the euphoric wave of escape from boredom, now drifted to you, his queen. Why had you called on him? Perhaps you had reached out, read his mind and decided to save him from his torture. Hopefully there was nothing wrong. Whatever the cause, he would be sure to kiss you senseless.

When he passed through the double doors and entered your shared bedchambers, however, those thoughts left him entirely.

You were seated on the end of the bed with your infant son cradled in the crook of one arm. He was crying-- _hard._ Your eyes were hidden behind your free hand, but he could see that the expression on your face wasn’t pleasant. The noise of his wailing filled the room, high-pitched and painful.

Thranduil sighing in resignation. So he was trading one difficulty for another after all.

You looked up at your husband, raising your eyebrows. “I’m sorry,” you began, your eyes welling up with tears. “I know your meetings are important, I did not want to interrupt, but he won’t _stop crying_ -”

Thranduil shook his head quickly, removing his thorny crown and setting it aside. He wiped away the stains of your previous tears, cupping your face in his hands and pressing a kiss to your forehead before setting it against his own.

“You are _most_ important,” he reassured you seriously. Your watery smile was enough to break his heart, and he sighed, whispering words of assurance as he tucked your hair back, taking his time in making sure you felt cared for. Unlike the monotony of his courtiers, this was a difficulty he would _gladly_ bear.

You nodded tearfully, taking in a shaky breath. “I don’t know what to do,” you admitted, your voice thick with emotion.

Thranduil pulled away and took your crying son from you, holding him against his chest. The wailing persisted. Thranduil’s brow pulled together, his dark eyebrows set in an expression that would normally make you laugh - it was comically pensive.

“You are causing your mother a great deal of pain, Legolas,” he chastised gently, his large hand stroking your son’s baby-blonde hair. Legolas paused in his crying, long enough to take a huge gulp of air, before continuing on at full volume. Your husband released a pent-up sigh. “Have you consulted the healers?”

“There’s nothing wrong,” you confirmed, taking full advantage of your first hands-free moment to adjust the fabric of your robes, push up your sleeves, and wipe beneath your eyes. “He hasn’t slept, but refuses to go down. I do not understand it.”

Thranduil hummed deep in his chest. He pulled Legolas away from him, far enough to look him in the face. The stern, deadly expression on the woodland king’s face might silence his foes, but it did nothing to dissuade the assault of his son’s infant cries. “For my sake and your mother’s,” he said quietly, catching hold of one of the tiny, balled fists as it thrashed around in the air, “I hope you are not as stubborn as your _Ada._ ”

“He just might be,” you admitted ruefully, tucking back an errant strand of your husband’s hair when it fell past his ear. You felt a wave of despair rise in your chest and dropped your hand on the bed. “I am not fit to be a mother.”

Thranduil’s blue eyes snapped upwards. “That is not true, _meleth nin_.”

“Isn’t it?” You challenged, your voice breaking, for a moment matching Legolas’s high pitch as he continued to cry. “I cannot remedy the simplest of ailments in our son, after hours of trying, and still–”

Thranduil interrupted you with a kiss. His lips were bittersweet like wild fruit, gentle and insistent. He pulled away only when he knew it had ushered you into momentary peace of mind. His crystal blue eyes gazed into yours and held your attention before he sighed, rising to his full height – with Legolas still crying in his arms.

“I think my son and I should take a walk through the halls,” he suggested. “I will return once he has quieted.” He reached down and offered you his hand, which you gladly pressed a kiss to, and held against your cheek for a moment.

Your husband left the room, taking the noise of Legolas with him. You let out a tired breath, dropping your head into your hands. You felt like collapsing to the floor. Or better yet, taking a _nap._

Parenthood was, admittedly, not something you or Thranduil had planned for. It _should_ have been. Producing an heir was a natural cause of action when the crown is passed down -- ironically, you and Thranduil had been too in love to care. Many things had slipped through your sights in favor of gazing at one another instead. Legolas, beautiful and perfect as he was, had been entirely unexpected: a winter infant, heralding the coming of long-awaited spring.

But when it came to caring for him, you felt like spring would never arrive. The first few months of Legolas’s life had been nothing short of terrifying. The child was besotted with catching ill on a whim, and several close calls had made you wildly paranoid. You felt like the whole woodland kingdom and all its eyes were _fixed_ on you, waiting for you to err in your role as queen and mother.

You raised your head and sighed. “Well, they will continue to be disappointed,” you muttered bitterly to yourself, standing to your feet.

You crossed the room, removing the heavy outer layer of icy blue-silver fabric and setting it on the dresser. Next, the dark grey overcoat. You unraveled the strings and wiggled out of the final layer of dress - pale grey with cold, muted undertones - and let it fall to the floor in a heap. Unfolded clothes were the least of your problems.

You stood in your underdress, briefly entertaining the idea of taking a bath. You decided against it. Winter still clung to the land, visible only in the morning hoarfrost and in the trees reluctant to bud. The chill didn’t suit you.

Your focus drifted to the fireplace instead, and found satisfaction there. You pulled one of the many blankets from the surface of your bed, wrapping it over your shoulders and sitting down atop the pile of furs that were always arranged by the fireside. It was _blissfully_ warm. Your eyelids drooped. The underlying panic in the back of your mind over your son’s wellbeing was resistant to falling asleep, but you purposefully ignored it: closing your eyes, nestling further beneath the blankets, letting the ache and worry in your bones dissolve against the heat.

It was dark when Thranduil returned, looking decidedly ragged in his own exhaustion. His son, however, was blissfully silent inside his arms, rosebud lips gently parted, his fisted hand resting near his cheek.

Thranduil’s eyes flitted over the room until they found you-- at least, what he _suspected_ was you -- a lump of blankets and furs in front of the fireplace. He smirked and let a quiet hum of laughter escape through his nose. He travelled silently past your figure, setting Legolas inside the crib of his own adjacent nursery, making sure that he stayed asleep before he shut the door.

You heard your husband’s robes whisper across the floor, and then he was beside you. Long, careful fingers tucked back your hair and a gentle kiss pressed itself to your cheek. You smiled, reaching up and catching his fingers gently.

“You succeeded.”

“Are you impressed?” He asked, lying down behind you and wrapping an arm around your waist, playing idly with your hands. He felt the vibration of your tired laughter.

“I owe you a debt, I think.”

“Hmm.” He sighed against your hair and closed his eyes. “We can come to an arrangement.” His peaceful expression turned to a mischievous smile when his suggestion earned him a back-handed smack against his shoulder.

You turned to face him, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips before tucking your head under his chin. Thranduil responded by cradling you against his chest. The fire snapped, crackled, warming your back while the two of you laid there in companionable silence. Other people might call the pair of you stern-faced; the icy king and queen of the Woodland Realm, battle-hardened and unwavering. The vulnerability and softness that you shared in the privacy of each other’s company was a secret more valuable than gold. Thranduil’s grip on you tightened slightly-- he wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.

“I love you, you know,” he said quietly. You stirred in his arms, sighing gently against his chest.

“I know.”

“You are a capable mother,” he continued. His low tone made it clear he was stating it as a fact. “If faced with the decision again, I would choose you without hesitation.” 

Your fingers pulled idly at the neck of his robes for a moment, rubbing the fabric between your fingers. The warmth of the fire and candor of his words was turning your ears red. “I know,” you admitted in a whisper, pressing your palm flat against his chest. “I do not understand why, but I know.”

Thranduil shifted. He leaned up, looking down at you with brows gently furrowed, before dipping low and pressing a kiss to your lips. It didn’t stop there - his kisses travelled lazily from cheek to shoulder, coming back and breathing softly against the nape of your neck in the way he _knew_ would make you melt in his hands. 

“Should I take the time now to remind you?” He asked against your skin. The fabric of your underdress was bunched loosely in his large, elegant hands as he rubbed idle circles against your outer thigh, made patterns with his fingers traveling up your side. Fistfuls of fabric that were sure to be removed if this continued.

You drew a line along his jaw with your finger, coming underneath his chin and pulling it up to look at you. In the firelight, his eyes were melted ice, crystalline clear and blue as the summer sky. Your arms wrapped lazily around his neck. You set your forehead against his. Your eyes fell closed with a gentle smile, followed quickly by his deep, rich laugh when you answered:

“By all means, _meleth nin_. Remind me.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading xx


End file.
